


'Cause You Break Me Open

by aubreyli



Category: Glee
Genre: Flashbacks to Violence, M/M, Rough Sex, does Sebastian’s inability to cope with newfound aspects of his sexuality count as a warning?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/aubreyli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sebastian encounters a very different side of Blaine at fight club, and goes home to encounter a very different side of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Cause You Break Me Open

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous gratitude goes to colferandthebeast and coatofstars, for rescuing me when I was caught in the mire of a particularly tricky scene, and to the-cimmerians, for her generosity, endless encouragement, and for helping me to navigate through treacherous waters (and for being the initial inspiration for this fic!). All remaining errors are my own. The title comes from Poe’s “Wild.”

“You know what your problem is?” Sebastian mutters wryly as he limps the last few steps up to his floor.  “Your problem is that you’re  _Alice_  – you know, ‘curiouser and curiouser’?  Giving yourself good advice but never following it?”  He finally reaches the door to his room, and allows himself to slump against it, just for a moment, before turning the doorknob and going inside.  “You just  _gotta_ chase that little white rabbit down the hole, don’t you?”

He closes the door, and eyes his reflection in the full-length mirror behind it, running his finger gently over the cut on his lip.  The cut had been a complete accident, a result of Sebastian tripping over his own feet and literally running into his opponent’s fist.  He’d barely registered it at the time, and it wasn’t until he was being pulled out of the ring that he realized the fight had ended.

( _“Rule number three: nothing above the collar or below the cuffs.”_ )

His entire body aches.  Slowly, Sebastian undresses: jacket, then shirt, then pants, until he’s standing in front of the mirror in just his briefs and socks.  He examines himself carefully, twisting and turning as much as his strained muscles will allow.  He’d known, of course, that he’d taken a beating, but seeing the evidence splattered in mottled, swollen, red blotches all over his skin makes it seem more  _real,_ as if each bruise is another stamp he’d acquired tonight on his journey through the realm of _sheer stupidity._

At least he’s not hard anymore.

He should have tapped out, instead of just standing there and  _taking it_ when it became clear that he was going to lose (and what the fuck was up with that, anyway?  What, did his sense of self-preservation go on vacation and not tell him?).  He should have fought back harder —  _or_   _fought_   _back_   _at all,_ a snide voice whispers in his head, moved faster, been smarter.  Hell, if he’s playing the should-have game today, then he should have turned around and walked out the door the moment that Blaine Anderson had walked in with an expression that set off every single alarm in Sebastian’s head.

But he hadn’t, of course, because he’d been  _curious._ He’d wanted to see if the  _other_ legend of Blaine Anderson – the one that he wasn’t even supposed to know about yet – was true, if the reverent hush that had fallen over the crowd was for something more than just the return of the Warblers’ former frontman. 

He supposes that he should feel kind of vindicated, because he’d always suspected that Blaine would be a wildcat under his hair gel and geek-chic clothes.  The wholesome, reserved ones always are.  He just hadn’t expected it to manifest like  _this._

There is a bruise forming right beside his navel, a swollen oval that’s just beginning to darken into a reddish web of broken capillaries.  That had been Blaine’s first hit, the one he’d made with his face so close to Sebastian’s that he could see the flecks of greenin Blaine’s eyes.  Sebastian had only been distracted for a moment (he’d always thought Blaine’s eyes were  _brown_ ), but it had been enough for Blaine to catch him off-guard. 

He presses lightly on the bruise, gasping a little as the tenderness sends a brief shudder up his spine.  That was only the first.  There are more, and he touches each in turn (the neatly rounded swells from Blaine’s fists, and bigger, slightly darker smears from his elbows and knees), feeling his breathing deepen and his heartbeat accelerate as his mind recreates each impact on his skin.  His wrists are encircled with red (just high enough to be covered by the cuffs of his shirt – God, Blaine’s  _good_ ), and Sebastian fits his own hand gingerly over the mark, his mouth falling open as he brushes his fingertips over the indentations from where Blaine’s fingernails had dug in too deeply.

Fuck, he can feel himself getting hard again.  He hadn’t dared to stop and jerk off when this had happened at fight club; he’d been too focused on getting his beaten ass back to his room before someone saw him and asked questions.  Now, though, Sebastian reaches down the front of his briefs, groaning as his hand closes around his cock.

He quickly flips through his mental catalogue of masturbation staples – the blond Belgian boy from the Lycée who had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen and a mouth like a Hoover; the guy he’d met on the dance floor of his favourite Parisian club, who he’d gotten so worked up that he’d come the moment Sebastian first thrust into his ass; the history teacher that he hadn’t gotten to seduce before the scandal (followed by expulsion and a shameful exile to the United States) happened, but who’d totally wanted him, he could tell – and discards them, one by one.  He thinks about Blaine instead, which is fitting, since it is Blaine’s fault that Sebastian’s like this.

The Blaine in his head is wearing that grey sweater with one of those fucking  _bowties_ that makes him look like some benevolent deity personally gift-wrapped him for Sebastian’s pleasure, and the pants that cup the curves of his round, luscious ass –  _God, Blaine has a nice ass, it’s why he always fucks Blaine from behind, so he can watch his cock disappear between those cheeks._ He strokes himself harder as he crowds Blaine against a wall and kisses him.  Blaine kisses back –  _shyly, because he’s still hesitant?  No, he’d be eager and he’d kiss_  – fiercely, cutting Sebastian’s lip in his desperation – oh  _fuck_ , yes – because God knows Blaine’s not getting any from that prissy little ice princess of his.  Sebastian groans, imagining Blaine’s heat –  _Blaine had felt like a furnace tonight –_ pressed up against him as he uses his height advantage to pin Blaine’s wrists up above his – _no, that’s not right; Blaine would want to use his hands, he’d grab hold of Sebastian’s face to keep him in place, gripping tightly enough to bruise—_

A sudden flare of pain jerks him back into reality, and Sebastian’s eyes snap open, meeting his own gaze in the reflection with a frown.  His lip is bleeding again; he must have bitten it.  He sucks his bloody lip into his mouth, and is surprised to feel a sharp frisson of lust as the metallic tang hits his tongue.  He swallows hard and tries to get his Blaine – _simultaneously innocent and wanton and so fucking needy_  – back again, but the taste of the blood in his mouth keeps dragging him out of fantasy and into the memory of Blaine’s  _eyes_ right before he’d landed that final punch: not wanton at all, but hot with ruthless passion, pupils so dilated that looking into those eyes had been like falling into an abyss.

He takes in a deep, shaky breath, and leans against the mirror to support his suddenly buckling knees.   _Okay, something new._ He steadies himself, closes his eyes again, and brings his hand back down to his cock.   _Fuck, this deep in the rabbit hole, might as well keep going, right?_

_Okay, yeah, that works_.  The scene blooms behind his eyelids:  _the warehouse, the grit of the concrete floor, the noise of dozens of –_

No, no noise.  They’re alone, just him and Blaine and the acrid smell of sweat in the air.  They’re alone, and Blaine won, so Sebastian’s on his knees.  Sebastian loves the control he has when he’s giving head, the way he can make a man come apart with a swipe of his tongue.  And of course Blaine would have a magnificent cock, worthy of Sebastian’s mouth: long, thick, heavily veined,  _delicious_. 

He slides two fingers of his other hand – the one not moving furiously over his dick – into his mouth, sucking the salt from his skin and groaning softly at the weight pressing down on his tongue.  Blaine’s probably never had a real,  _quality_  blowjob (Sebastian’s memory flashes quickly to Kurt’s smarmy little face) in his life, and Sebastian would have him writhing in seconds, his legs shaking as he holds himself back from fucking Sebastian’s mouth.  But Sebastian’s not some delicate little virgin – he’d slide his hands up to Blaine’s pert, perfect ass and pull him closer, locking eyes with Blaine to make sure that he’s watching his cock sink farther into Sebastian’s mouth. 

“ _Yeah, like that_ ,” Blaine would gasp, his face contorted with pleasure.  His hips would buck forward, pushing his cock deep into Sebastian’s mouth, deep enough for Sebastian’s throat to tighten and his eyes to start to sting.  He blinks, and all of a sudden, his fantasy Blaine morphs into the Blaine from the warehouse – the  _real_ warehouse – standing over him, his silhouette lit from behind by the harsh warehouse lights as he stares down at Sebastian, dazed and bleeding on the filthy stone floor.

Sebastian cries out, his back curving forward as he thrusts his fingers hard and fast into his mouth, moaning, spit dripping from his lips down his forearm.  He feels his throat start to spasm, but Blaine – the Blaine who had punched the breath right out of him, and then hit him  _again_ as he was going down – wouldn’t give a shit about Sebastian’s discomfort.  He might even get off on it, and fuck Sebastian even harder, forcing his cock past Sebastian’s gag reflex until Sebastian’s literally  _choking_ on dick, eyes watering as he struggles uselessly for air—

He feels his knees start to give out, and he yanks his fingers out of his mouth to slam his hand against the mirror, sucking great gulps of air into his starving lungs.   _Okay,_ he thinks, heart pounding,  _so clearly I hit my head a lot harder than I thought during the fight_.  He takes a few more deep breaths.  When his brain has enough oxygen to start working again, he closes his eyes again and refocuses as he jerks himself harder, mentally fast-forwarding through the blowjob –  _it’s fine, that’s all just foreplay anyway_  – to the main event: Blaine, bent naked over a desk, legs spread wide, back arched as he looks at Sebastian over his shoulder. 

_Oh, fuck yeah._ This is his absolute  _favourite_  Blaine fantasy, the one that could make him get it up even if he was naked in the Arctic.  Oh, he’d savour it, take his time easing into Blaine, not because he’s trying to be gentle (hell, if tonight’s performance is any indication, Blaine probably _likes_ it rough), but because he wants to tease, to give Blaine a taste of what he’s put Sebastian through these past few weeks.  He’d rub his cock over Blaine’s hole first, letting his pre-come mix with the lube until Blaine’s skin is glistening, before thrusting in, barely, getting just the head of his cock inside before pulling back out.  He do it again and again, gripping his hips to keep him from fucking himself onto Sebastian’s cock, going a little bit deeper each time, but still just stretching his hole without actually filling him, and it would be worth the agony for the way it would drive him _wild_.But he’d hold out, he’d hold out until he  _begs—_

“Please, fuck me, fuck my ass, please, oh  _please_.”

—and  _then_ he’d do it, fuck balls-deep into his ass in a single, swift thrust that would knock the air out of his lungs.  He would try to catch his breath, but before he can suck in any air, he’d get fucked again, cock pounding his ass in a delicious, punishing rhythm that would have his fingers clawing at the wooden surface of the desk.  Oh, it would hurt, but he’d still be begging, for more, for  _deeper_ and  _faster_ and  _harder,_ all in one long, continuous stream of breathless, barely-coherent moaning that sharpens into an actual _scream_  when a series of perfectly placed thrusts send bright bursts of pleasure shooting through his entire body.  And then it’s nothing but “yes,” and “ _right_  there,” and “oh God, oh God, oh God,” and he knows he’s getting loud, too loud –  _fuck, what’s wrong with him –_ but he can’t make himself stop –  _thin walls, boarding school, THIN WALLS_ – it feels so good,  _so good,_ and he slaps his hand over his mouth but that just makes him topple forward and he barely gets his arm back out in time so that it’s his forearm and not his  _face_ that smacks against the mirror—

“Ah,  _fuck!”_

Hot, dull pain in his wrist, and he collapses forward onto his knees, his other hand –  _shit –_ still wrapped around his cock.  He pushes his bruised forearm harder onto the mirror, sharpening the soreness into a deep, vicious ache that sends shudders crackling through his body, just like when Blaine had pinned Sebastian’s arm behind his back and pressed his chest to Sebastian’s back, forcing Sebastian against the warehouse wall, trapped between Blaine’s scorching heat and the wall’s unyielding cold so that all he can do is writhe like a worm on a hook, and all at once, he’s  _right there,_ feeling his orgasm sear its way up from his balls, his world narrowed to the iron squeeze of his hand on Sebastian’s wrist –  _his fingers fitting perfectly over the marks –_ and the low growl of Blaine’s voice as he said,

_“Don’t you dare.”_

And then his hand is yanked off his dick, the sudden loss of contact making him gasp as his dick is left fucking nothing but air.  His hips jerk helplessly, seeking that last bit of friction he needs to push him over – because it wouldn’t take much at all, fuck, he’s  _so fucking close_  – and he clenches his hand more tightly around his wrist and bites down hard on his lip, but that just makes the heat even  _worse,_ like his entire body is a live wire and those two points of pain are the switches that close the circuit, and suddenly, it’s not Blaine’s hands bruising his wrists but his  _belt,_ wrapped around his wrists like that porno he watched once where the top tied the bottom’s hands behind his back and fucked him until he  _sobbed_.  And then the fantasy ripples again, and it’s  _him_  getting fucked and  _Blaine_ holding the belt and oh God, he’s never felt like this before, never been able to  _feel_ himself teetering on the brink, as every fibre of his body strains toward orgasm.

Something inside him is screaming, but he can’t – he can’t open his eyes, that will end things and he’s so close, so  _fucking close_ that he can taste it in the back of his throat, and he can’t stop now, he just can’t.  He brings his hand down to his cock and fucks his fist as Blaine fucks him, hard and fast and it hurts and it’s amazing, pain and pleasure swirling together until he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling, except that he wants more, more, and Blaine’s fucking him even harder now, not even bothering to aim for Sebastian’s prostate because he doesn’t give a shit about  _Sebastian;_ he’s just a hole for Blaine to fuck, and if he comes before Sebastian does, he’ll just pull out and  _leave_ him there, wet and used and so fucking  _humiliated,_ but still moaning and begging for it, desperate, strung-out, begging like a _whore_ , and that’s—

That’s it, that’s  _it,_  he’s  _coming_ and  _coming,_ all the way from his cock and balls to the tips of his fingers and toes.  His orgasm roars through him like a streak of lightning, like it’s ripping him open, snapping his head back and making every muscle in his body spasm and seize.  He can’t hear, can’t scream, can’t even  _breathe_ , mouth working soundlessly as sensation slams into him in wave after endless wave, drowning him in pleasure so intense that it rides the knife-edge of pain. 

He loses time after that; aftershocks keep buoying him back up whenever his body tries to come down, and every exhale sends fresh bursts of shudders rippling through him.  He feels dazed, almost dizzy, and  _raw,_ as though someone has taken sandpaper and scoured off the top layers of his skin, leaving his nerve endings exposed and unnervingly vulnerable.  Slowly, little pinpricks of sensation begin to flare up all over his body: his throat burns, his wrists ache, and his  _ass_ …

_What the fuck just happened?_

Awareness jolts back into him, as a dawning sense of horror (and something else that feels unsettlingly like  _shame_ ) rapidly replaces his endorphin high.  Sebastian swallows hard, and slowly pulls his fingers out of his ass, grimacing at the way his hole reflexively tightens around the intrusion.  He wipes both of his hands on his socks and carefully staggers to his knees. 

_What the FUCK just happened?_

He glances up at his reflection in the mirror, and watches himself recoil in disgust before quickly turning away, breathing hard as his heartbeat ratchets back up.  He closes his eyes again, but that just blazes the afterimage of what he saw –  _red, sopping, fucked-out, used_ – behind his eyelids, so he just stares at the floor instead.  There’s a sudden chill in the room, and he shivers violently. 

He doesn’t – he doesn’t look like this.  He can’t.

Underwear first, pulled back up his thighs and over his ass.  Then the shirt, which clings to his sweat-soaked body and takes him three tries to button properly, but it’s worth the effort to watch his skin –  _mottled red-purple smeared with white_  – disappear under the pristine cotton.  The tie takes even longer, because the material is slippery and keeps sliding through his stiff fingers.

Fuck, his lip is bleeding again.  He reflexively flicks out his tongue, and then immediately regrets it when the sting makes his dick twitch.  There are all these  _words_  whirling around him, names and labels that clamour in his head, loud and teeth-jarringly dissonant, and he shakes his head fiercely against their cacophony.  He’s not a… Jesus, just  _thinking_  it makes his throat close up.  He’s not.  He’s  _not._

_This is Blaine’s fault.  Blaine must have done something.  Shit, he probably has a concussion._

Pants, he needs pants.  He manages to work the stiff fabric over his legs and hips, hissing and wincing as bruised skin and sore muscles protest his every move.  The smooth slide of the leather belt makes his hands shake – _Blaine pulling it tight so it bites into his stop it_  – but he swallows hard and buckles it into place.  The jacket is last, and he buttons it carefully, before he faces the mirror again.

He can still see it on him, in every place his clothing is askew and in the flush of his face.  It’s like his reflection is taunting him, and he’s suddenly furious, at Blaine for doing this to him, at himself, at the blood still oozing from his lip, and at the waist-high splash of come that’s slowly dripping down the mirror –  _pretty impressive, considering he was practically lying down when he was STOP!_

“Stop thinking about it,” he mutters, through gritted teeth, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, as though he can physically squeeze out those stupid, crazy thoughts. 

His room reeks of sex and he has semen on his mirror.  That needs to be dealt with first.  Then he needs to take a long, scalding shower and get the stink of this… this  _thing_ that happened tonight off his body.  And after that, he needs to delete Blaine’s from his phone, his Facebook, excise him from every aspect of his life like he  _should_ have done ages ago; and  _then,_ after that, he needs to go out and find someone to fuck, someone blond and slim and completely unlike Blaine in every way and just bury his dick in that boy’s ass until this little trip down the rabbit hole is such a distant memory that it might as well have never happened at all.

Sebastian takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then another, and a third.  When he looks in the mirror again, he can almost convince himself that the guy looking back at him is the same guy who walked out of the room three hours ago, that the faint buzz still lingering in his system is nothing more than just leftover adrenaline from the fight. 

Almost.  He can work with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the working title of this was “GTFO Slutpig”


End file.
